


something of the wolf about you

by shesmyplusone



Series: a light from the shadow shall spring [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, F/M, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Political Jon Snow, R Plus L Equals J, Romantic Jonsa, Some Book Verse incorporated, the pack survives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shesmyplusone/pseuds/shesmyplusone
Summary: In the aftermath of the great war against ice and fire, Westeros struggles to find itself again. Legacies will end, new stories will begin, and the world will be forever changed.  Jon and Sansa Stark, the rulers of the first independent North in three hundred years, will find themselves guiding history, with their children leading the path to a new Westeros.Another generation of direwolves is ready to show the world their teeth.(Continuation of my post 8.01 AU)
Relationships: Arya Stark & Bran Stark, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Bran Stark & Sansa Stark, Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Bran Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Theon Greyjoy & Jeyne Poole
Series: a light from the shadow shall spring [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1409161
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to part two everyone! This story is more of a slice of life story, less narratively driven. Part 1 isn't necessary but would fill in some backstory (100k+ of backstory, I suppose.) I hope everyone enjoys!

Winter is cold, it is all encompassing, it weighs you down and stops you from seeing any hope for the future. 

The light snows develop into heavy downpours, and what was once drifting flakes become an impassable storm. 

The air is cold, thick with snow. Simply the action of movement is harder in the winter; forcing one’s body through the storm when the entire world is screaming at you to stay still, to let the cold air whip around you and claim you for itself. 

It seems every step taken in the winter takes a bit more of your energy, leaves you a bit more drained. 

Combined, say, with complete societal collapse, an immortal enemy, and the loss of the world you’ve known, winter might be all you ever see. You might let yourself get lost amongst the cold. 

But sometimes, a single blade of grass may sneak through the snow, and that is all you need. Simply the hint of spring is enough to revive hope, to let it sneak back into the deepest corner of the hearts of people who need it most. 

People like young boys, simply trying to figure out who they are. Sitting in a crowded hall, a pretty girl smiling down at you. You do not know who you are, not yet, but you do know she makes your heart beat faster than anything besides the terrifying fear of death. You want to keep feeling like this, whether it’s here in this hall, or anywhere else. 

People like young girls, who know who they are, but don't quite know what to do with it, yet. Girls who spin around their closest friends, who might one day be more, girls with the blood of a wolf and the smile of a cat. Girls who don’t know where their lives are going, but are eager to find out where it will take them. 

People like young lovers, sneaking off from the party, hand in hand. They put in their time, they think. Now it is time for them. They’ve given up so much, taken on so many burdens. They think their people might forgive them this one action. They slip into the room that is now both of theirs, and gently move together. There was once fear, for both when they did this. The young man, fearful of making a wrong move, of being discovered for who he really was, in his heart. The young woman, trapped and terrified, abused with no hope. 

But now they are together. 

And there is so much hope. 

Their movements are definite, comfortable. The young man takes off her dress, one that represents all she was. The young woman unlaces his breeches, hands certain. He grasped her hips, she strokes his face.. 

They move with each other, and bring to life another. 

The thronebreaker. 

(But we are not there quite yet.)

They have found hope in each other. The blessing of spring comes forth from them both. 

Hope finds its way into the hearts of others, as well. Into young queens, who see a new path forward, one where she can give, where once her family had taken. Into knights, who has a letter snug against her heart, thinking of decisions that are yet to be made. Of young lords, who do not know how to rule, but know with the girl in his arms, they will learn, together. 

Hope is the grass poking through the snow, the buds on the trees. It is the water dripping off a thousand year old Wall, of warmer suns, and longer days. 

Hope is spring, and spring is here.


	2. Year 0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran starts his journey, Varys worries about the future, and Arya looks ahead.

**Bran Stark**

Bran settled in his saddle, gripping the reins tightly. He was on the back of a white horse, one that Jon had claimed was steady and reliable. There were light furs hanging over his shoulders, flowing in the light wind around them. 

The castle yards were as busy as ever, with people rushing every which way. Bran, Meera, and the remaining Reed soldiers were all to leave, and there seemed to be dozens of things left to do, even though this journey had been planned for the better part of a month. 

Bran had originally planned on leaving to go South the same time Daenerys Targaryen and her party headed for King’s Landing. However, the idea of leaving Winterfell, even if it meant a few more weeks with Arya, was too much for him to accept. So, with Meera’s blessing, they had put off their journey, with the excuse that Bran wanted to practice his riding more before heading South. 

But still, the day had come. Bran tossed his hair back, and looked down at Sansa, smoothing out his packs, looking anxious. “You have everything?” his sister asked, eyes raising to meet his gaze. “Your books, your clothes?” 

“Yes, Sansa,” Bran replied, humoring her concerns. “I’ve doubled checked twice” 

Sansa scoffed, and “No need to tease, Bran,” she told him, a hint of a smile on her face. 

“I would never, my Queen,” Bran told her, solemnly, before laughing. 

After he calmed down, Sansa reached for his hand. “Come home whenever you wish,” she told him, serious again. “You’ll always have a place here.” She paused for a moment, and continued. “And a Lordship, if you wish.” 

Bran said nothing, his heart tightening. It had been the better part of six weeks since Sansa and Jon had been crowned, and even though the majority of the Northern Lords had returned home, a few seemed quite insistent that Sansa and Jon name a Lord of Winterfell, just to deal with the daily occurrences of the castle, so they could focus on the Kingdom. Bran knew many wanted it to be him, but neither Sansa nor Jon had pressured him, or even brought up the concerns from the Lords. 

Bran appreciated them sheltering him, but he knew he would have to come back soon, and be ready to take the seat he still felt ill-prepared to sit in. 

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said, softly. “I’ll write you when we get to Greywater Watch, let you know how long I plan to stay.” 

“It will take however long it takes,” Sansa replied, fiercely. “There are no worries from us.” 

Bran squeezed her hand as well, taking in her face one last time. Since Jon and her had married, they’d both seemed refreshed, getting more sleep, and seeming more at peace than before, Bran noted. Sansa’s hair was longer, her face brighter. Bran was happy she was finally happy. 

“You ready to go, Bran?” Jon's voice cut in, coming to stand next to his wife. 

Bran nodded. “Aye, Jon.” His brother smiled up at him, leaning on his cane. 

“I have one last idea,” Jon told him, turning and clicking his tongue. “Ghost can come along with you, if you want.” His huge direwolf came out of nowhere, silent and massive. 

Bran smiled, touched at the offer. “Thank you for the idea, Jon, but Arya already promised that Nymeria would be waiting for me in the Neck,” he told him, thinking back to Arya’s desperate hug before she had followed Gendry South. 

Jon raised his eyebrows. “If you’re sure-” 

“Yes,” Bran said firmly. He didn’t want to take Ghost away from his brother, not now. Not while he was still coming to terms with really being a Stark. 

“Alright,” Jon said, before leaning forward to hug him. Bran clung to him, the way he hadn’t been able to all those years ago when Jon had left. Now, it was him leaving. “Safe travels, Bran.”

“See you soon,” Bran told him, his voice choked up. 

“Not if I see you first,” Jon whispered into his hair. Bran held Jon to him for one more second, before letting go. He heard a second horse come up along his other side, and forced himself to look away from his siblings. 

It was Meera, dark hair tied back, in similar furs to Bran’s. “Are you ready?” she asked, meeting his eyes. Bran could feel a blush on his cheeks, aware of the tears in his eyes. “It’s a long journey to Mount Cailin.” 

“Aye,” Bran said, straightening his back. 

“Meera, please take care of him,” Sansa called. Bran felt his blush deepened. 

“Of course, your Grace,” Meera said, firmly. “No harm will come to Bran, I promise.” Now there were butterflies, Bran thought, darkly. Wonderful. 

“Have a good journey,” Jon said, voice more solid. “Goodbye, Bran.” 

“Goodbye,” Bran said, softly, looking between them both. He could not see the future, not anymore, but he had a feeling next time he saw them, there might be one more. 

And Winterfell would always be there, to call him home, he thought. As he rode his horse out of the castle, Bran thought back to the images he had seen of the future before he had lost his Sight, of children filling a castle surrounded by spring, amongst them a girl who would change the world. He would need to come home, just to be able to experience the events he had foreseen. 

But before that, Bran would go South, to learn who he was again, in a place that was halfway between the homes of his mother and his father. Last time he had left Winterfell, he had thought he had been looking for himself, as well. Instead, he found himself further from himself than ever before. 

This time he was determined to find the person who he wants to be, without anyone else trying to influence him. Even a supernatural being. Especially a supernatural being. 

Bran thought he owed himself that, at least. 

They rode out of the gate of Winterfell, and Bran didn’t let himself look back until they reached the hill overlooking his home. He slowed his horse down, and turned him to face the castle. It looked different than it had in his youth, with rebuilt castle walls, and several of the towers still being repaired. But with Jon and Sansa-and Arya, someday- within its walls, it would always be home. 

“Are you ready, Bran?” Meera called. Bran was only vaguely aware of the others, his eyes trying to memorize Winterfell before he left. 

He would miss his siblings, he realized, suddenly, but he knew their fates were different at this moment. Jon and Sansa knew who they were, knew how to handle their trauma, and most importantly, had each other to rely on. He and Arya were still looking for these answers, but he knew, as did she, that the rest of the pack would be here, in Winterfell, waiting for them to come back home.

Bran turned for one last look at Winterfell, and looked back at his oldest friend. He smiled, and said, “Let’s go.” 

-

**Varys**

It had seemed a lifetime since Varys had last walked the halls, had last stood in the Great Hall. The colors were all wrong now, he noted, or, really, finally correct. Black and Red colorings, tapestries, statues, covered the halls. There were nobles from as far South as Dorne and as far West as Oldtown. 

They were all soleem, no longer eager for a new ruler. Between Robert, Joffrey, Tommen, Cersei, and finally, Jaime, it had been a tiring few years. 

But Varys hoped they’d find a way to seem eager for Daenerys. He’d been putting the final touches on the ceremony, drawing from any old Targaryen rituals he could remember. It would be simple, with no actual Dragons to threaten a sudden explosion of flames. 

But it would finally be done. 

And the real work could begin. 

Varys had a list of what needed to be addressed- the Riverlands were still destroyed, and the Reach as well. The Iron Isles still needed to be granted their freedom, and to be brought into trade treaties with the other kingdoms. There was the North as well, which needed to be addressed, eventually. 

Daenerys seemed unconcerned with the North now, and had spoken of it as a sure thing these days. With her heir coming from the North, she seemed unwilling to do anything to displease Jon or Sansa. 

“The child will be a Stark, yes, but it will be a dragon as well,” she’d told him one night over their evening meal. “The dragon will only be slumbering, as I once was. I will simply have to awaken it.” 

Varys could only hope that the Starks would be able to make sure their Northern morals would be stronger than the madness which Westeros had only barely missed out with Daenerys. 

But the more pressing issue had been the threats from Essos- letters from all the slave cities, threatening war if Daenerys attempted to attack them from the West. He hadn’t shown her yet, wanting at least this one thing to go smoothly. 

Varys stood next to Jorah, Missandei, and Grey Worm, waiting for Daenerys to walk down the hall to the Iron Throne. She had refused to even see it before this day, not wanting anything to go wrong. 

Varys hoped her superstition would pay off. He could use an easy day, as well. 

On that thought, the doors opened, and the low level of conversation dropped to silence. Varys raised his head, and could see Dany’s little figure from a distance, dressed in black and red, her silver hair streaming down behind her. 

She’d chosen no Dothraki braids, Varys noted. As he’d suggested. If she wanted to be seen as Westerosi, it would help if she would dress like it. 

She walked smoothly down the hall, passing all the nobles had come to see her. There were the Martells, who had ridden South from Winterfell with them, the remaining Tyrell cousins from the Reach, and Jaime leading the remaining Lannister cousins. 

There were the Tullys from the Riverlands, standing with Arya Stark, all looking silent and unmoved. Gendry Baratheon was at her other side, looking vaguely uncomfortable in his attire. Young Robin Arryn led the party from the Vale, and Asha Greyjoy stood off to the side, representing the Iron Islands. 

There were lesser nobles as well, from Oldtown to Duskendale, to Seagard and Starfall. All quiet, all relieved, Varys believed, there would be no more bloodshed. That their sons would no longer die for this throne. 

At least for now. 

Daenerys’ steps sped up as she got closer to the throne, no doubt eager to finally sit on it. Varys watched her come to a stop, just before it, as planned. He turned and was handed a dark red pillow, holding a simple black crown. 

He walked and stood between the last Targaryen and her throne. “Daenerys Targaryen, do you pledge to rule the six kingdoms of Westeros with strength and courage?” Varys asked, voice echoing across the hall. 

“I do,” Daenerys promised, eyes shut. 

“Do you pledge to rule with the blessing of the Seven?” 

“I do,” Daenerys repeated. 

“Do you pledge to keep your people safe, to enact justice as you see fit?” 

“I do,” she said, eyes opening to meet his gaze. 

He lowered the crown onto her head, letting it settle amongst her curls. He reached down and offered her a hand, which she used to pull herself up. 

“Your throne, your Grace,” Varys said, softly. She smiled at him, before turning, and sitting in this throne that she had sacrificed so much for. 

A silence settled over the entire hall, and Varys stepped back as Missandei moved forward. 

“This is Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Queen of the Six Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. Long Live the Queen!” she added, and the sentiment echoed through the hall, making it more lively than it had been all day. 

Now that the crown was on her head, and the throne was beneath her, Varys felt relief rush through him. It was done. He let himself cheer along with the others, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head, whispering that the game never ended. He would be playing this game for the rest of his life, trying to keep Daenerys on this throne, trying to prepare whichever Stark child who would come South to take her place. 

He had won Daenerys her birthright, Varys thought, still clapping with the crowd. But it seemed his only birthright was to worry about what was to come next. 

-  
**Arya Stark**

Arya stood at the balcony, overlooking King’s Landing, as she had as a child. It had felt more than a lifetime ago when she’d danced with Syrio on these bricks, her father watching her. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the city was still quiet. 

Daenerys had been crowned Queen the evening before, and much of the castle seemed to be recovering from the festivities. Arya woke early every day since she’d arrived, and there was much less movement this morning. 

She was due to leave for Storm’s End this afternoon. Gendry was eager to get there, to see what they’d have to work with. 

It had been a long journey to King’s Landing, and seeing the destruction of the Riverlands broke Arya’s heart. It was even worse after the winter than it had been when she and the Hound had crossed back and forth, looking for Robb and her mother. 

The few small folk who still lived in their homes were poor of both coin and food. Many had only recently returned from Riverrun, where they took shelter during the winter. Many came out to watch as they rode by, Daenerys looking down at her new subjects. 

While they rode South, Arya and Gendry began to plan. They had both agreed they’d need to get food to the people first, as that was the most important thing.  
Afterwards, they would be able to take account of how many people had survived the wars and the winter. 

Davos-who had surprisingly decided to come along, at the very last moment- had agreed with their approach to focus on the smallfolk. He had shared how Sansa and Jon had helped the people at Wintertown and ensured that the other great keeps had Noble families ruling each of them, to organize resources and help distribute food to the smallfolk. 

The Stormlands were smaller than the North, with less distance between the holdfasts. But this meant more people in a smaller place, and none of them knew who had claimed power in Storm’s End after Renly had died. 

Davos had his suspicions, but it was not until they reached King’s Landing, and read a letter waiting for them, that he was proved correct. 

“Edric Storm?” Arya asked, tucked under Gendry’s arm, as she tried to read the letter. 

“He says he’s Robert’s bastard son,” Gendry told her, eyes still tracing the page. 

“So he’s not legitimate?” Arya asked, stomach turning. 

“He never was,” Davos informed her, leaning against the wall in Gendry’s small quarters. “He was raised with Renly in the castle, far from court. By the time he could have been legitimized by anyone, Stannis wanted him killed.” 

“How did he survive?” Gendry asked, raising his eyes to look at Davos. 

“I got him out,” Davos said, voice rough. “I sent him East. I have no idea how he returned.” 

Arya looked down at the letter. “He says when he heard of Stannis’s death up North, he decided to come back and claim his castle. No one tried to stop him.” 

Davos snorted. “Proof that Cersei was not thinking straight, if the castle was never claimed by the Lannister forces.” 

“Does he want to be Lord, do you think?” Gendry asked, arms dropping to his side. Arya slipped from his side, moving to look out the small window. 

“I do not know,” Davos admitted. “He might. But Daenerys has given the castle to you. Hopefully, he will accept that, and won’t lead us to another war.” 

Arya tried to imagine fighting one of her siblings for Winterfell. She knew it was different, Gendry had never even met Edric, but the thought seemed impossible. Even at her and Sansa’s roughest days, she’d never want to fight a war against her. 

It probably helped that she had no interest in ruling, too. 

“We still have to go,” Gendry insisted. Arya turned, and was surprised at how certain he looked. He seemed prepared to accept this castle now, one he’d worried about for the last few months. “I can rule in name only, but if the people of the Stormlands are anything like what we saw in the Riverlands-”

“We’re still going,” Arya said, firmly. He turned and caught her eye. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll understand.” Gendry’s cheeks had gone pink at her words, but he seemed pleased. 

“Robert has other bastards out there as well,” Davos shared, hand clenching. “Sansa told me she met one at the Vale- Mya Stone. The only real claim we have now is Daenerys’ blessing.” 

“I’d let them all live there, if it’s up to me,” Gendry admitted, looking back at Davos. “But we have to get there first.”

Davos had agreed, and the topic had been dropped. Arya still worried about it, though. She had worried while sneaking through the castle in the mornings, worried while training in the yards, and even more as Daenerys had finally been crowned. 

Last night, she had left the festivities as quickly as she could, and written a quick letter to Sansa and Jon, sharing that Daenerys had been crowned with no complications. She didn’t mention Edric, not wanting to worry them. 

She’d headed to bed soon after, wanting to be well rested for the journey ahead. It would only be her, Davos, Gendry, and an escort of soldiers from Daenerys, making them a poor army if Edric refused them entry. It would take them about a week to get there from King’s Landing, and Arya wanted to be ready for anything. 

“Sleep well?” A voice asked behind her. Arya turned to see Gendry, rubbing the sleep out of his eye. He was dressed to ride, but seemed unhappy to be up this early. 

“Better than on the ground,” Arya told him. It was true enough, even if nightmares of her father’s headless ghost, accompanied by Sansa’s screams, had haunted her since they’d arrived. 

Gendry snorted, and walked to join her at the balcony. “I’ve never seen it from this perspective before,” he admitted, voice getting softer. She looked up at him. Sometimes, she forgot that he’d lived here, too, that they’d met at the gates of this city all those years ago. 

His eyes were wide, taking it all in. Arya felt her lips get tugged up, enjoying watching him be happy. “It’s different from up here,” Arya told him. “But we can’t forget what it’s like to be down there, too.” 

Gendry reached out and took her hand. Arya’s heart was beating faster. “Aye, we won’t.” 

She let her fingers squeeze his, and imagined doing this for the rest of her life.


	3. Year One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon welcome a child, Gendry continues his plans for the Stormlands, and letters are exchanged between Winterfell and Casterly Rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! So sorry for the delay- I have to admit I've been struggling finding inspiration during these complicated times, but finally managed to get through this! I hope everyone enjoys- and I promise I'll keep working to keep this story coming. xx

**Sansa Stark**

She had never wanted her mother more than she did at this moment. Sansa was pacing up and down the hallways of Winterfell, for what felt like the dozenth time this morning. She had Gilly on her left, and Jon on her right, but they felt so far away from her.

Her mother hadn’t shared much with her about childbirth. Sansa supposed she’d thought they’d have more time to discuss it. Sansa had been young when Rickon was born, only eight, too young to be allowed to see what was going on. All she remembered was being ushered into Bran’s nursery during the night, sitting in there with all her siblings, waiting to meet the newest Stark. She and Arya had got to see him before the boys, escorted in by her father late in the evening. 

Rickon had been all red and tears, but Catelyn Stark had been smiling down at him like he was the whole world. Sansa had wished he’d been quiet. 

She wished now, walking slowly, that she would be able to talk to her mother just one more time, ask her why she’d been willing to do this five times, let alone once!

She’d felt as if the baby- who’d been causing her great distress since late the evening before- seemed content in causing trouble, but not actually making an appearance. 

At the thought, her stomach gave another lurch, and she moaned, loudly. 

“Sansa? Do you think you’re close?” Gilly asked, concerned. She’d given birth just three months before, and Sansa had attended, fascinated. She had a much easier time than this. 

“I don’t know,” Sansa complained. “Every time I say I think we’re close, and we go back to the room, and nothing happens!” Somewhere, deep in her mind, she was aware of how much she was whining. But birth seemed a responsible explanation, she decided. 

“It’s not a hassle, Sansa,” Jon said, gently. “It’s not as if there’s anything more important than the baby.” 

Sansa paused for a moment, and met his gaze. He had a soft smile on his face, but she could see the concern behind his gaze. After all, she thought, childbirth had been how his mother had died. 

“How’s your leg?” she asked him. He hadn’t grabbed his cane when they’d left their chambers this time, and she could tell he was moving slowly. 

“We’re moving as slowly as possible,” Jon pointed out, echoing her thoughts. “I’ll survive.” 

She smiled at him just as another wave of pain rushed through her. “Oh, that felt like something,” Sansa breathed. 

Gilly hurriedly turned her around. “Let’s get you back to Sam, then.” Another wave of pain rushed through her, and Sansa gasped, loudly. 

“What are you going to name the baby?” Gilly asked, as she and Jon hurried Sansa through the empty hallway. 

“We have a, a few names picked,” Sansa gasped out, the pain starting to get worse. “Depends on the baby.”

“Good idea,” Gilly told her, loudly. Trying to distract her, Sansa realized, affectionately. “If the second baby had been a girl, we were going to call her after one of my sisters. Dyah, or Ferny.” 

Sansa smiled. “So Jon wasn’t your first choice?” she asked, trying to clear her mind. 

Gilly laughed, light and happy. “No, we both wanted a boy. So Jon was our first choice.” 

Sansa knew if she could look at Jon right now, he’d be blushing. “A good name for a baby,” Sansa agreed. She kept her head up. They were almost there. “But we have a few others in mind.” 

They’d talked about it endlessly the last few months. They both had so many people they had loved, and wanted to honor. The only names they’d agreed to set aside for now would be her parents. Sansa knew Jon still had a complicated relationship with her mother’s memory, and she didn’t want to push him on that. And her father’s name, while meaning so much to them both, might mean more to Arya. 

If it was a boy, they’d agreed on Robb. Little Robb Stark, Sansa had imagined, with her brother’s red curls. And for a girl, Lyanna. Sansa had pushed for it, knowing that Jon wouldn’t speak up. But she’d seen how happy he’d been when she suggested it. 

Sansa didn’t care which it was now, as long as this baby was out of her. 

A wave of pain rushed through her. “Ah,” Sansa moaned, shutting her eyes. “I think the babe’s coming,” she muttered, trying to keep it together. With her eyes still closed, she felt Gilly and Jon speed up, and lead her back to their rooms. 

The rest of the night seemed to pass in a haze of pain and sweat. Sansa remembered Jon’s hand, clutching hers, and his worried eyes shadowed by candle light. Sam and Gilly were telling her to push, and she tried to focus on their voices-and then she was here. 

Sam was holding her, as Gilly wrapped her in a thin blanket. Sansa blinked up, watching as Sam carried their baby over to her waiting arms. 

“Here she is,” Sam told her. “Perfectly healthy in every way, if a bit late.” 

Sansa held open her arms, and felt the warm weight of her daughter. She blinked down at her. The babe’s face was scrunched up, as she whimpered slightly. There was a fuzz of dark curls across her scalp, but her eyes were too shut for Sansa to see the color. She was perfect. 

“She’s perfect,” Jon echoed her thoughts. Sansa looked up at him, but his gaze was solely focused on their daughter. He was even tearing up. Sansa shifted the babe slightly, and held out her right hand, which Jon took. 

“She’s all ours,” Sansa said softly, still feeling a bit awed by the idea. Jon laughed wetly, as if he agreed with her. 

“What’s her name?” Gilly asked, softly, from across the room. She was folding up all the blankets she and Sam had used for the birth. 

Sansa looked up at Jon again, and this time he met her gaze. Before Sansa could make her suggestion, the babe issued a loud yawn, and opened her eyes for the first time. Sansa could see her own bright blue eyes reflected on her face. Her thumb went out and stroked her face. The perfect little mix of Stark and Tully. 

“Lyanna,” Sansa said, suddenly. She looked at Gilly first, who smiled, and then to Jon who beamed at her. He was always most handsome when he smiled, she thought, absentmindedly. 

“Lyanna Stark,” Jon repeated. 

Lyanna yawned again, as if she was responding to her name. Sansa laughed a bit as she continued to stroke her face. “Do you want to hold her?” Sansa asked, looking up at her husband. 

Jon looked hesitant for a moment, but he nodded. Sansa lifted her up and set her in Jon’s arms just as carefully as Sam had set her in her own. Jon’s face softened as he held their daughter for the first time. His eyes tracked her face, and his hand reached out to stroke the babe’s face, mimicking Sansa’s movements. 

Lyanna yawned again, a big movement for someone so little. Jon’s good eye crinkled, and Sansa felt as if she could watch them forever. 

-  
**Gendry Baratheon**

It was early in the morning, and Gendry took advantage of the quiet of the castle to try and get through his letters. 

They’d been living at Storm’s End for over half a year, but this was still one of his least favorite tasks. He was still nervous going over his letters, and preferred to read alone, where he could take as much time as possible. 

There were almost too many letters to go through alone, as he and Arya had just returned from a several week’s long expedition to visit some of the nobles around the Rainwood, trying to take stock of what the noble families of the Stormlands still possessed after all the long years of war. They’d arrived back at Storm’s End the evening before, and both were too tired to do anything but fall into bed. 

Gendry had forced himself awake as soon as the sun rose, knowing he had much to do. Still, leaving the bed, where Arya continued to snore away, was hard. He smiled, thinking about her. She had been insistent over their journey she was only sleeping next to him for warmth, but he’d let her take her time. He’d be here when she was ready. 

He fumbled through the letters, trying to focus on the words from Lord Arstan Selmy about this year’s coming harvest, but his mind kept drifting. There was so much to do- he’d have to meet with Edric, who’d stayed behind to mind the castle. 

His half brother was not particularly fond of the political dealing that came along with being a Lord, but Gendry had never admitted to him that he wasn’t either. But they’d come to an easy agreement- Edric would host dinners and get to feast with whoever came to visit, and Gendry would go out and talk to people in their homes, whether it was the smallfolk or the other lords of the Stormlands. 

It worked well, so far. 

Arya, meanwhile, came along with him on his journeys, but spent the rest of her time training up the castle’s guard. They’d not shown her much respect at the beginning, but now that she’d pushed them all around, she’d even gotten them to accept a few new female guards within their ranks. She was pleased, and Gendry was happy she was happy. 

The only moments Gendry got off from playing being a lord were late at night, where he’d go into the castle’s well sized smithy, and pound away on a new sword or helm. It took his mind off the endless frustrations of trying to get the lords and ladies of the Stormlands to work with their smallfolk, instead of against them, as they had for years. 

But it seemed to be working. He’d gotten Lord Selmy to agree to work with his smallfolk to sell some of the harvest to fund the building of actual towns, which the Stormlands had historically lacked. Arya had described to him how towns created commerce which would help the small folk move on from farming to survive. 

Her journeys across Westeros and over to Essos had exposed her to a number of different lifestyles, and she told him how the people of Braavos were able to fund different sorts of shops and inns, something that the majority of Westeros lacked. With the fertile, somewhat empty land of the Stormlands, they had a chance to offer a new life to the people who lived here. 

The only struggle was getting those living in their safe, fancy castles to agree. 

But they were getting there. Gendry thumbed through the other letters, looking for anything that caught his eye. There was one from Mya- he ripped that one open first. They’d been writing for the last few months, and she had agreed to come down for a visit later in the year. She seemed insistent to return to her mountain, however, which put a stop to Gendry’s dream of having all of his newfound siblings under one roof. 

He smiled at her words, writing about her beloved mules and her new husband, a man named Lothor. He’d need to write back soon, he thought. 

The next letter was from Winterfell. He opened it quickly, thinking about how Sansa was due to have the babe any day. It was Jon’s handwriting, and it only took one sentence for him to jump up and rush out of his solar and down the hallway to wake Arya. 

He opened the door too loudly for the hour, but Arya sat straight up before he could even say her name. Her hair was mussed up in the back, and she blinked at him, confused. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, voice a little hoarse. Gendry simply handed her the letter, before sitting next to her on the bed. 

She gave him a look. “Just tell me, I’m still too asleep to read this.” 

“You’re an Aunt,” he told her, voice soft. “Sansa had the babe!”

Her eyes widened, and she started reading the letter eagerly. “Lyanna….” she said softly. “Little Lyanna Stark.” 

To his surprise, she started to tear up. “Are you alright?” he asked, concerned. He could count the number of times he’d seen Arya cry. 

She nodded, rubbing her elbow across her face. “I guess I never really thought they’d be more Starks,” she said, softly. “All those years when we were all scattered to the winds...Lyanna is proof we survived.” 

Gendry smiled, and reached out and took her hand. “Yes, you did,” he agreed. He let that hover in the air before asking the question he’d had in his mind since they found out Sansa was with child. “Do you want to go back to Winterfell?”

She blinked at him, looking a bit ridiculous with her hair and her red eyes. “Of course I have to go back!” she said, voice annoyed. “Don’t be stupid, Gendry. She’s my niece! I have to go meet her!” 

“I know that!” he retorted, furring his eyebrows. “I meant...do you want to go back for good?” It’d been the back of his mind since before they’d even left Winterfell. Arya had seemed eager to go with him, excited for a new challenge and more people to help. But he knew how long she’d fought to get home, how much she loved her family. How he could keep her from that, no matter how much he wanted her here? No matter how much he needed her here?

She opened her mouth, clearly ready to retort. But she just stared at him for a moment, before beginning to smile. “Gendry… are you really worried about me leaving?” 

He shrugged, and looked away. The window caught his eye, and he could see the sun shining off the sea in the distance. 

“I just… like you being here.” he admitted. “I don’t know how I could do this without you.” And it was true-she always was there to explain to him a concept he didn’t understand, whether it was trade with far off kingdoms, or the different levels of nobility. She was there to back him up in arguments with Davos or his brother, to talk the lords and ladies into helping with their wild schemes. 

But that all felt like too much to say. He looked back at Arya, worried about how she’d respond. 

Arya pulled her legs up, the letter still in her other hand. “No, I’m not going to go back for good,” she told him. “I...like being here too,” she admitted, looking as if the idea still surprised her. “I like being in charge, teaching your useless guards how to fight. I like going with you to yell at the lords. I like...being here with you.”

He smiled at her admission, trying to control how his heart wanted to soar. That was for another day, he told himself. When she was ready. “Then let’s talk to Edric, plan our trip North.” 

“Our?” she repeated, raising her eyebrow. 

He squeezed her hand. “Our.” he confirmed. 

He’d like to meet his future niece, too. 

-

**Brienne of Tarth & Jaime Lannister**

Dear Ser Jaime, 

I hope you are well. Is the weather at Casterly Rock agreeable? I have never been to the Westerlands, and have little to compare it with. Winterfell’s weather is finally improving, and has almost become pleasant. 

The Queen and King are well. She is with child, and it has brought happiness across the castle. It does give me less to do, as she’s moving a bit slower these days.

I have added two new members of the Guard. One was the third son of a lesser lord from past Torrhen’s Square. The second is a member of the free folk-though I suppose he is a former member, now, as he has now dedicated his life to House Stark. 

I feel as if I am rambling, trying to find the words to talk to you about anything that is not simply the mundane. I have re-written this letter almost a dozen times. You asked me for my words, and I hope what is to follow will be enough. 

When you left me, I was at my lowest. Podrick’s death still weighs heavy on my heart. I still find myself angry that you left, even with your explanation, even with the outcome of both sides of the war. 

I do not have words for you that can comfort you. Not yet. But if you wish to write me back, I promise I shall read it. 

With regards,  
Brienne

Ser Brienne,

If you can be formal, so can I. 

I must admit, I did not expect to hear from you so soon, even if the words were not what I desired. I am happy you wish to communicate at all, and have not cut me off completely. 

If you wish to hear of Casterly Rock, I shall share. 

The castle is in near disarray. It seems after I left King’s Landing, Cersei became somewhat lacking in sending funds to my Uncle Kevan and his sons, who were in possession of the castle. With Cersei on the throne, myself a member of the Kingsguard, and Tyrion at the time a wanted Kingslayer, they had assumed the castle would pass on to them. 

I have to admit, seeing their faces when I arrived to take back my birthright was humorous. I had not laughed so hard in so long, watching Kevan’s son Willem gawk at me. 

I have since been preoccupied with reorganizing the lords and assuring their loyalty. This also required reassuring them all that Daenerys Targaryen will not be enacting her revenge over her house, as she has no dragons left to do so. I still find the story of their demise- Varys told me, at her coronation- somewhat unbelievable. But no less believable than the walking dead, I suppose. Or the giant kraken in Blackwater Bay. 

The smallfolk of the Westerlands remained somewhat untouched by the wars, minus those who had marched with my father. The lands were not razed, and their livelihoods remain. But now it is I, a fool with no history of leading from a castle instead of from aloft a horse, that must lead them. 

I suppose this is more than you wished to hear from me, but I must admit, I have no one else to tell. Even if you do not reply, thank you for the chance to get my thoughts down on paper. 

What I did to you was unforgivable. I do only hope you can understand why. What I said in my first letter still stands- I only hope you understand why I did what I did. 

I did forget to mention the weather- it is beautiful here. The wind is light, the sun is high in the sky, and I spend my evenings looking at the sea. I suppose you once did the same, back in Tarth. 

I hope you are well. 

Yours, always, 

Jaime 

Ser Jaime, 

I must admit I did not see myself replying. But nonetheless, I am, because I cannot leave your words unanswered. 

I am able to understand why you went South. You were saddened at Tyrion’s death, and did not wish to lose your sister as well. I do not have a sister, but I do understand- if something had happened to Lady Sansa after Podrick had died, I, too, would have been unconsolable. 

But your words, as you left- that you were not a good man, that you could never be a good man-seem held in opposition in every action you have taken since you left the camp. You not only went to Cersei to spare her life, but to help end a war and stop more deaths, on both sides. You peacefully surrendered the throne, you have committed yourself to helping the people of the Westerlands- these are not the actions of a bad man. 

I do not resolve you of all your sins- I remember how you were when we met-but you have changed since then. 

I suppose I have gone back on my words from the previous letter, where I said I had no words to comfort you. 

I suppose I still have many. 

Your description of Casterly Rock does remind me of Tarth. I spent many summer afternoons with the sun on me, watching the sea. 

Best regards,  
Brienne 

Brienne, 

I have no words for what you’ve given me. As I mentioned previously, your words have a hold over me, and I can only wish to be half the man you believe me to be. 

Serving the people of the Westerlands was always my birthright, yet I continually ran away from it-going so far to join the Kingsguard to stay close to Cersei. It was the act of a selfish, lovesick, young man- especially for one who knew my father would never let Tyrion inherit Casterly Rock. 

Now that I finally have a chance to lead them, I suppose I feel I must do it right. 

That is enough of me, I suppose. How are you? How is Winterfell? Has the little wolf pup arrived yet? 

I find myself joyful that you would share bits of your childhood with me. I hope one day to hear more. 

Tarth sounds beautiful. I hope to see it one day. 

Yours, always,  
Jaime 

Jaime, 

I am happy my words are finally getting through your somewhat thick skull. It may be my second finest accomplishment-the first will always be the knighthood, however. 

I am well. My daily tasks are simply to watch the Queen, train the new recruits, and to consider any threats to the Queen’s safety. I enjoy it, though I must admit it is often quite quiet here. It is a nice break after the war. 

The Queen is getting larger every day. Young Maester Tarly says she will be due to give birth soon. The entire castle is full of joy at the idea of a babe. It does feel as if spring has truly come. 

I’m happy you liked my tale. In my childhood, I was often alone, as I did not wish to do what the other girls wanted to do, and the boys rejected me outright. Sitting and watching the sun across the sea was one of the few activities that brought me peace. 

Maybe one day we could see it together. 

Warmest regards,  
Brienne 

Brienne, 

The children of Tarth did not know what they were missing out on. You are an incredible person, and it is their loss. 

My childhood was honestly the exact opposite. Training in swords, training to be my father’s heir- it seemed as if everyone wanted something from me. Cersei was my closest companion, but was easily upset when I was given more than she was. Tyrion was always there, which helped, even when my father despaired of him. 

No time to myself, very little time to watch the sun set. 

I find myself missing both my siblings, often, even though so much of our relationships were tainted by the time they were ending. I hope I do not sound repetitive, but speaking to you gives me much relief, as I have no one else to talk to about these feelings. 

I’m happy to hear it is quiet in Winterfell. Both yourself and Queen Sansa deserve some quiet. And her little brother-cousin-husband-King as well, I suppose. 

If it is ever too quiet, there will always be a place for you here. 

Yours, always,  
Jaime 

Jaime,

I have to admit I would like that. 

After the babe is born, after I believe the new trainees are prepared, would you welcome a visit from a delegation from the North? 

Yours,  
Brienne 

B-

Only say the word, and Casterly Rock will be yours. 

Yours, always,  
Jaime

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact- I was originally ONLY going to write this part of the story, and fill in the previous one in this prologue. So ....(checks 100,000+ word fic) plans change? 
> 
> This fic will mostly be driven by the canon characters until the latter half (similar to the previous story) and then the next generation will start to take the stage. So, if you don't feel like getting involved with my OCs, no shame, I hope you enjoy what I've written so far! (I'm a bit anxious about this bit, to be honest. I've always had fandom OCs, but have been a bit nervous about actually sharing.) 
> 
> Thank you all for coming along again. I'm posting the prologue and the first chapter together as the prologue is a bit short. I hope you all enjoy, which is what is really important in these ever-changing times.


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